


Accordance

by goldfishtobleroneandamitie



Series: In which squinterns get girlfriends (and become people in the process) [1]
Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Christianity, F/M, Islam, Muslim Character, Religion, Religious Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-13
Updated: 2012-03-13
Packaged: 2017-12-08 15:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishtobleroneandamitie/pseuds/goldfishtobleroneandamitie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What you just told me, 'Ras, is that you're in love. And according to my mother, who assures me she is an expert on the subject, love will work itself out." Arastoo's lived his life a little on the outside, never really feeling comfortable with who he is and what face he shows the world. When he meets a girl who seems to understand him implicitly, what could stand in their way? A lot, apparently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arastoo Vaziri had not thought he'd be back on this platform again.

A year away from the lab, a stint in Baghdad looking at mosque wall art ad nauseum, and yet here he was.

Exactly where he'd started.

 _The gadgets have gotten even better,_ he mused, and watched with awe as a plastic skeleton rose from the bluish goo. A thematically appropriate shower of futuristic lasers blazed as they shaped the bones from the gel.

_I come to work to find myself in the future._

"Time travel is impossible, Mr. Vaziri," he jumped at Dr. Brennan's voice, not realizing he'd spoken out loud, and barely caught the rest of her sentence "but I know what you mean."

He said nothing, letting his usually hyper-rational supervisor's wistful tone digest.

_What's in the water in the Maluku Islands, anyway?_

"Wow. If you're taking orders, I'd like a six-four, thirty-seven-year-old male with, uh, good income and no mommy issues," came Dr. Saroyan's voice, accompanied by the click-click of heels on metal and the soft  _bleep-bleep_  of the security scanner.

He smiled as he moved to help Angela remove the quasi-skeleton from its gooey source.

* * *

 

"The detail is remarkable," he informed Angela. And he was sure that he could (eventually) get over that it looked like the skeleton in an elementary-school nurse's office, dipped in fluorescent paint.

"Thank you."

_Eventually._

"It's even flexible at the joints where tendons and ligaments were replicated!" Doctor Saroyan sounded not unlike a child with a new toy.

"Right." Apparently he wasn't the only one who'd noticed the resemblance, or the good doctor's excitement, judging from the slightly-perplexed look on Angela's face. "But can we get anything useful from it?"

Studying the skeleton, he replied, "Well, the victim had turned-out hips and high arches. That, along with the muscle attachment at the shoulders and hips, suggests that he was a ballet dancer. There are nicks on the lateral and posterior surfaces," he finished.

"Okay. Why don't you just flip it over to get a better look?" ssked Angela blithely.

He stared at her.

She stared back, eyebrows raised.

"We would…never…flip over a real skeleton."

"Ah, but lucky for us, this is a replica. Come on, grab a limb!" Dr. Saroyan seized a clavicle and began to tug.

He ruthlessly suppressed his screaming inner scientist (completely separate from his inner Muslim, which winced about touching the dead at all while gloveless).  _This isn't actually the dead, you idiot. He_ took an ankle, and carefully flipped the skeleton— _plastic,_ he reminded himself—facedown.

* * *

 

The last of the red faded from the sky visible through the skylights, and the lab began to darken quickly. He knelt, adjusting his prayer rug, and began to murmur the first raka'at of the  _maghrib_. The wool under his knees, the stone under his brow, was as much a ritual as brushing his teeth or his mother tucking him in when he was young, and just as calming. The other squints had called off early, as they'd caught the killer, and the only other presence was the night watchman's steady footsteps in the hall outside. They provided a soft staccato off-beat to the ritual words.

He finished the first, then the second raka'at, then began to mouth the third silently. He heard the  _whoosh_  of the automatic doors. He didn't look up—the newcomer wasn't wearing Dr. Brennan's distinct perfume, and their movements weren't accompanied by the  _click-click-click_  of Dr. Saroyan's heels. Everyone else could wait.

"Dr. Sweets?"

Definitely not one of the regular rotation. Who would be looking for the psychologist here?

"Dr. Sweets?" She moved closer. As she approached, he caught the scent of a soft body spray…grapefruit? It was nice. He closed his eyes once more, determined to finish. Scent aside, she could wait.

"Doctor—"

He straightened—

_WHAM._

Her sneaker-clad foot dug into his ribs, and she went soaring over his back. He let out a huff of pain, and swore.

"Oh my God! I'm so sorry! Are you all r—"

He cut her off. "I'm fine."

"No, honestly! I wasn't watching where I was going; I'm so sorry!" She looked stricken.

"I'm fine. Really." He glanced around; the space surrounding them was littered with papers and files.

"I shouldn't have come here. I was just—"

"Looking for Dr. Sweets? Yes, I think the whole Jeffersonian heard you," he interrupted, grinning.

She flushed, drawing his attention to her fair skin…and other things. She was pretty, in a yellow T-shirt and dark jeans. She had a snub nose scattered with a few freckles, pale blond hair in a low ponytail, and light gray eyes. She met his eyes for a moment, flushed darker, and began scraping together the various piles. He raised an eyebrow and began to help.

"So…care to tell why you were looking for Sweets?"

She didn't look up. "He's my doctoral thesis advisor. He'd given me files on some of his patients, to see if I could use them as a topic. I looked for him in his office, but he wasn't there, and he said here was the next best place to look."

He reached past her to get the last sheet of paper, wedged under her knee. The proximity put him right next to her shoulder.

_Yes, grapefruit._

He nudged her knee to move it off the sheet, and she quickly complied.

"He's probably at the Founding Fathers. It's where the team goes after cases a lot of the time." He paused. "Pardon my saying, but…you don't look old enough to be on the road to a doctorate."

She stiffened, straightened. "I'm twenty-three. I graduated high school a year early, finished my undergrad in three and a half years. Took a semester off, so now I'm a third-year grad student," she finished defensively.

 _Whoops._ "Sorry, didn't mean to offend you," he replied, trying to backpedal.

She sighed and rose to her feet. He stayed kneeling and began to fold the prayer mat.

"No, I'm the one who's sorry. I tripped over you, you helped me clean up, and then I snap at you for asking a perfectly reasonable question."

He remained silent, inviting her to continue.

"I'm just not the tallest— she indicated her less-than-average frame— "and I look a lot younger than I am. But rest assured," she finished, "I am, in fact, a grad student."

"Me, too. I work for Dr. Brennan, forensic anthropology. Well," he amended, "I'm currently studying cultural anthropology, but I used to be her intern and she was in a bind. I'm considering switching back over, now that she can be my supervisor again."

"You work for the Bone Lady?"

"-Er—"

She laughed. "Sorry, that's what Sweets calls her when he's annoyed with his book. Or when Agent Booth drags her out in the middle of a session. I'm forensic psychology, specializing in juvenile offenders."

"Wow. That's heavy stuff." He finished folding and straightened, only then realizing how far he towered over her. Her eyes were about level with his chest.

"Say…not to be impertinent, but what  _were_ you doing on the floor?"

He suppressed the urge to lie. "I'm…Muslim. I was finishing my evening prayer."

She blushed again. "Great. I tripped over you while you were  _praying?"_  She groaned, but her face brightened. "That's why you didn't say anything! You were finishing the last _raka'at!"_

 _What?_ "Yes. How did you know?"

"One of my friends in college was Muslim. Not practicing, but she taught me a lot of the words for everything." She peered up at him. "You don't have an accent, but your features say Jordanian, or Persian."

"Iran. My grandparents moved in the seventies. And isn't that supposed to be my job?"

"What?"

"Facial recognition."

"I suppose it is, Mr. Anthropology Pants." She put the hand not holding files on her hip and cocked her head. "Do your worst."

He studied her. "Tall mesocepahlic, receded zygomas, large brow ridge and narrow nasal aperture suggest Nordic Caucasoid, but the accent says a rural area, somewhere in the mid-Atlantic. Tennessee would be my guess."

"Yes. A very small town called Cookeville, Tennesee.  _Offarin,_  Mr….?"

"Vaziri. Arastoo Vaziri. You speak Persian?"

"Enough to ask where the bathroom is. Same college friend." She shook his hand firmly.

"Nice to meet you, Arastoo. And with that, I have to get these to Dr. Sweets." She smiled. "It was great meeting you. And sorry again about the whole tripping thing," she added, as she began to leave.

"No problem…hey!"

She paused just inside the doors and looked back.

"You didn't tell me your name!"

She laughed. "Maggie! Maggie Dakkars!"

"Nice meeting you, Maggie!"

Her laughter echoed through the rapidly darkening lab.

* * *

_"_ Hodgins says life cycles of  _Drosophila melanogaster,_ or common fruit fly, put time of death at approximately ten days ago."

"Mmm."  _Grapefruit. Maybe some lemon in there, too._

"And I got a hit off the cell phone. The wires were mostly corroded, but the called a New York number seven times in the three days before she died. I'm following up on that now."

"Mmm." _Why didn't I get her number?_

Angela sighed. "And Hodgins and I are going for naked massages with coconut and papaya oil, and we're taking Cam with us for a spray tan."

"Mmm- _what?"_

Angela raised an eyebrow. "What's on your mind, Vaziri?"

"Oh—nothing."

"Don't give me that. Brennan's not around, so  _spill."_  She leaned forward, placing palms down on the exam table. "It's a girl, isn't it? One of the squinterns got a  _girl!_ Hodgins, c'mere! _"_

"'Sup, Ange?" The entomologist stuck his head out of his experiment room.

"Arastoo's got a girlfriend!"

Hodgins looked at him apologetically. "Sorry, Mr. Vaziri. The pregnancy hormones…"

"It's all right." He thanked Allah that his dark skin didn't show blushes.

"But seriously, man. Who is she?"

"It's just…" He squirmed. "Dr. Sweets's grad student."

She let out a squeal. " _Really?_ Aww, young love!"

"Cool your jets, Ange. Leave the poor guy alone," Hodgins smirked, tugging gently on her arm.

"Leave who alone?" Dr. Saroyan asked, striding up the steps. All three jumped.

"Cam, Arastoo's got a—"Angela sang out, before abruptly silenced by Hodgins.

"Nothing, Cam. Ange, can I talk to you? About the…phone?"

"But—"

_"Ange."_

The entomologist gently but unyieldingly dragged his wife off the platform.

He felt the back of his neck getting even hotter. "Dr. Saroyan—"

"It's all right, Mr. Vaziri. Have you found the murder weapon?"

"That's the funny thing," he replied with relief, turning to the X-rays. "I made a mold of the skull trauma site, and it looks like impact damage from a length of pipe. I'll ask Hodgins to swab for fibers. But the placement and shatter pattern imply an assailant at least a foot taller than our victim. Since the victim's roughly 155 centimeters tall, that makes the assailant…" he paused. "At least 1.9 meters."

"Should be easy enough to find in the witness statements. Good work, Mr. Vaziri."

"No, tell Sweets I am not available for a session right now. I have a murder case to solve! Good afternoon, Mr. Vaziri," Dr. Brennan addressed him, as she climbed the steps. "Have you found the murder weapon?"

"Yes, ma'am." He repeated what he had told Dr. Saroyan.

"Excellent. Have Angela run possible murder scenarios on the Angela-tron."

"Dr. Brennan!"

The forensic anthropologist turned again and said coldly, "Miss Dakkars, I have informed you that I am unavailable. Please leave."

"Dr. Brennan, if I could just have a moment of your time."

 _Oh, dear. Wait—_ Dakkars?

"Maggie—"

She ignored him. "Dr. Brennan, if I may be frank. Dr. Sweets, as I understand it, has done  _nothing_ except conform to  _your_  needs since coming here. He has helped both you and Agent Booth in your investigations  _whenever_ you ask, receiving only in return your dismissal of his life's work as guesswork and conjecture. Surely by now you can provide him with  _some_ approval and clear time in your busy schedule to let him finish what is, essentially, a study of  _you?_  Throw him a  _bone, for God's sake!"_

The ensuing silence echoed off the metal walls and platforms; you could have heard a pin drop.

He had never seen Dr. Brennan off guard, until now.

"Are you—finished?" His supervisor's voice reflected her bewilderment.

Maggie shut her eyes. "Yes, Dr. Brennan. I'll see myself out."

Turning on her heel, she swept out the sliding doors with a  _whoosh_.

Quickly, he looked at Dr. Saroyan.

"May I be excused?"

She was still staring in shock at the sliding doors. "What? Oh, yes. Of course."

He was off the platform and out the door before the last words were out of her mouth.

Behind him, the silence of surprise echoed off the walls—surprise at  _anyone,_ let alone a new grad student, would presume to tell Dr. Brennan  _anything._

* * *

"Maggie!"

As she turned, he saw two spots of color high on her cheeks, and her gray eyes were sparkling. "Arastoo!"

He slowed, still in his lab coat, to a stop in front of her. "That was…brilliant. I've never seen  _anyone_  do that to Dr. Brennan."

"I was completely out of line. If they tell Sweets, I'm done. Not to mention he'll want to psychoanalyze me now. Again," she muttered, rubbing her forehead.

"Even if it was…that was…amazing."

She flushed. "Thanks."

Shifting, he took a breath, then let it out quickly: "Do you want to go out sometime?"

"Yeah. I would love to."

_Wait, really?_

"Yes, really," she laughed.

"Sh—shoot," he coughed. "I didn't realize I'd said that out loud. The Founding Fathers, Saturday, at seven?"

"Umm…" she bit her lip.

"What's wrong?"

"I…don't drink. Big Christian family." she muttered, fiddling with her necklace.

He stared at her. "Really?"

"Yeah. If that's a problem…"

"No. I just…I don't either. Orthodox Muslim. I just got used to ordering Coke there."

She let out a choked laugh. "Usually guys think I'm a recovering alcoholic when I tell them that."

"I know the feeling."  _Wow, she's perfect._

She brightened. "Hey, the new Captain America is coming out this Friday. Do you want to go see it?"

"You like Captain America?"

"Yes! He was my hero growing up."

"You're perfect," he marveled.

"What?"

"Never mind. I'll meet you at the Avalon Friday night. At eight," he managed to get out.

"Perfect. Here, give me your phone."

She tapped a memo into his phone, then flipped it closed and slipped it in his coat pocket, looking at her watch. "Crap! I really, really have to go. Apologize to Dr. Brennan for me?"

"I will!" He yelled to her retreating back.

Standing there in his lab coat, he retrieved his phone from his pocket and looked at the memo she'd left.

_202-584-8231 Can't wait. Icees on me. –M_

* * *

"You're early. I like that in a guy."

He turned, and almost fell. She was wearing jeans, like before, but these were faded almost to white, with holes in the thighs showing patches of bare skin. Her round-necked purple T-shirt showed off her delicate clavicle and a small gold cross hovered in the hollow of her throat. She wore gold ballet flats on her feet.

"I was hoping to be here before you."

Shrugging, she replied, "I needed to shop for a birthday present for my sister. I got it, though, and I think she'll like it. Want to see?"

"Sure." He watched as she pulled a small gray-velvet box out of her purse, a big braided-leather bag nearly as big as she was.

"Here it is." She flipped it open with one hand. A silver cross glinted up at him, with tiny words engraved along the crossbar. He leaned closer.

"Luke 6:37?"

"It's a Bible verse… 'Judge not, and be not judged'," she replied, letting her hair fall forward. "My family can be a little…straightlaced, and I figured it would be a good reminder for her. I have one like it, but in gold," she said, touching her cross necklace. "My entire family can be a bit...well, 'Quick to laugh, quick to act—and much too quick to judge,' was what my grandmother used to say." She gave an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry—didn't mean to shove my family issues on you like that."

"I don't mind," he answered, as they got in line. "What's your sister's name?"

"Mary. Well, Mary Ruth, but she goes by Mary. Then there's Sarah Elizabeth, then my older brother Joseph Elijah. Then me, Eden Margaret."

He whistled. "You weren't kidding, when you said Christian family, were you?"

"No." She laughed again, only a little less embarrassed. "You have no idea."

"It's all right," he replied dryly. "You should see mine. My mother still wears a  _maghna'eh_ , and my sister and I wear traditional Muslim clothing at home."

"Where is home?"

"Chicago."

"Sir?" The ticket taker asked. "That will be nineteen dollars and fifty cents."

"I can pay-"

He caught her hand as it entered her purse. "I'll pay." He handed the woman a twenty.

She frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Call me old-fashioned."

"Okay. But I'm getting an Icee."

"What's that?" He followed her into the lobby, towards the shiny glass-topped concession stand.

She turned. "You've never had an Icee?"

"I don't think so."

"That's just wrong. You're having one." She turned to the cashier. "Two Icees, one blue-raspberry and Coke, and one cherry and Coke."

"Yes, ma'am, coming right up."

She turned back to him. "You'll love it. And if you don't, I'll drink yours."

"Sounds good to me."

Drinks in hand, they headed into the theater.

* * *

"They originally wanted the guy who played Bucky to be Captain America."

She stared at him. "No way. He's too skinny."

"Yeah." He could feel his stomach loosening with every step outside the movie theater. "So what got you into psychology?"

She laughed. "Bit of a conversation jump there. But I was fascinated with why people did the things they did, and I didn't like the answers I was getting at church—that all humanity is inherently evil and you have to scratch and claw to even have a chance at Heaven. My parents don't really truck with psychology."

He nodded. "My religion forbids touching the dead."

"How do you get around that? I mean, you handle skeletons for a living."

"I wear gloves. But sometimes it's hard, and I get odd looks. Did you know I put on an accent when I first started working at the Jeffersonian?"

She stared at him. "Not really."

"Really. I thought if I sounded fresh off the boat, people wouldn't comment on the rest of my quirks as much." He opened the glass door into the warm August night.

"You, quirky? Nooooo."

"Hush, sarcasm doesn't suit you."

That was met with silence. He backtracked. "Sorry, that was way out of line—"

"No, it was cute. I like that you don't mind being yourself around me. Usually once I mention that I don't drink, come from a family that doesn't believe in evolution, and would rather read comic books than go to a party, guys run for the hills."

"Usually when I mention that I don't drink, pray five times a day, and handle dead bodies for a living, I have the same problem."

She laughed. "I want to figure out why five-year-olds shove model plane parts down their brothers' throats, instead of breaking them like a normal child."

"I'm the one that  _finds_  the plane parts and figures out how the brother was killed, based on nicks in his clavicle. I also get to clean off the rotting skin."

She held up her hands. "You win."

"But they're both relatively gruesome."

"Fair enough."

She paused by a white Jeep. "This is my car."

"All right. Maggie?"

"Yes?" She looked up at him, light-gray eyes almost glowing in the darkness from nearly a foot below him.

"I had a...wonderful time. I hope to see you again soon." His voice tripped over the slightly awkward words, and he cursed silently at his natural formality. He didn't want to be formal with her.

"Yeah."

Her eyes were only a few inches away now.

"Def—"

Her lips were sweet from blue raspberry flavoring and Coke, the flavors colliding and mixing with her citrus scent. He felt her short nails on the back of his neck, and his hands linked together at the small of her back. It started off as a short, chaste kiss, but quickly escalated until she was flat against the car and their hands were in each others' hair.

He didn't know how long they'd been kissing when brightness flared behind his eyelids as another car's high beams exposed them. He pulled back from her, her eyes popping open at the lack of contact.

_'Say to the believing men that they should lower their gaze and guard their modesty: that will make for greater purity for them: And Allah is well acquainted with all that they do.'_

I should go."

"Yeah…" her hair was disheveled and he wanted to kiss her again.

"Good night." He pushed away.

"I have every Batman movie ever made at my place."

He paused. "What?"

"We could make a night of it. Order pizza," she replied, her voice growing softer in the way he'd noticed correlated exactly with the current shade of pink her cheeks were.

"Do you have the Tim Burton one, with Michael Keaton?"

"Yup. We could start there, work our way through to Dark Knight."

"Sounds perfect."

"Next Friday?"

"I have…worship service. Sorry—"

She laughed. "Let's just agree to be open about religion, okay? Neither of us needs be ashamed of it. So Fridays are out, what about Saturday?"

"That's great. Say five in the afternoon?"

"Till then."

He submitted to his impulses just enough to kiss her on the cheek. "Good night."

"Good night—thank you for the wonderful time," she murmured, and stepped into her car.

He watched her drive away, savoring the feel of her hair between his fingertips and her scent in his nose.

_Citrus._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an uncovered not-secret, Indian food, and a decision made.

"'Ras! Over here, Vaziri!"

Arastoo turned to the waving hand, accompanied by a British accent, amid the teeming cafe, and gratefully headed to the table where his friend was seated.

"Hello, Vincent." He slid into his seat.

"Mornin', 'Ras." Vincent looked terrifyingly awake, a fact attested to by the two empty coffee cups already in front of him. He shoved another, black, into Arastoo's waiting hands.

He took a sip and felt the familiar jolt of this particular establishment's  _extremely_  strong coffee.

"They've made it even stronger today? I didn't even know that was possible."

"I know, mate. I've only had two and I'm already buzzed," Vincent replied. "Usually it takes at least four."

Arastoo eyed his coffee cup. It looked innocent, but...

He carefully took another sip, coughed, and set it down. He flagged a waitress, asking for a cinnamon roll, and returned his gaze to the slim British man in front of him.

"Four cups of coffee. You're British. What's wrong with this picture?"

Rolling his eyes, Vincent replied, "Dreadful stereotype, that. While a bit heavy, there's really nothing for waking up like good American coffee. And...'what's wrong with this picture'? Who are you, and what have you done with Arastoo Vaziri?"

He could feel his ears getting hot, thinking of exactly where he'd gotten the expression.

" _You're over there. I'm over here. What's wrong with this picture?"_

_She'd promptly scooted across the couch, curled up under his left arm, and returned to sipping her Sprite like nothing had happened._

_Needless to say, his attention hadn't been exclusively focused on Michael Keaton that night._

"'Ras?"

He blinked from his reverie. "Why do you call me that?"

Vincent looked slightly perplexed at the change of subject. "Call you what?"

"No one calls me 'Ras, except you."

His friend shrugged. "I don't know. 'Arastoo' seems a little formal, I suppose. And it's a little hard to enunciate 't's after the third or fourth whiskey," he finished, half-dryly, half-embarrassedly. "Did you know that the first written record of whiskey appears describing the death of a chieftain at Christmas from "taking a surfeit of aqua vitae"?"

"Vincent, it's eight o'clock in the morning." He nodded to the waitress as she set his cinnamon roll in front of him and inhaled the warm icing-smell.

Vincent looked perplexed. "And?" he asked, doing his curious bob of the head common when he was confused.

"Why are we talking about whiskey at eight in the morning?" It reminded him uncomfortably of the whiskey breath he'd endured picking Vincent up, the stains on the carpet of his car he'd had to get cleaned, and the perpetual smell that had surrounded his good friend after his trip around the world. That smell had eased as Vincent had entered a twelve-step program, but sometimes even the memory would burn his nose.

He snatched his coffee and took a deep breath of the strong, but somehow clean-smelling, fumes.

Perhaps chagrined at Arastoo's forced tone, Vincent muttered, "Sorry, mate."

"It's all right." He took a sip of his coffee.

_Maggie will never smell like that._

And it was true. Maggie had never smelled of anything stronger than mocha coffee, which she claimed as her weakness. He didn't mind—the chocolate smell somehow mixed perfectly with her own citrus scent.

He took another sip.

"' _Ras!"_

He started. "What?"

Vincent frowned. "That's twice in less than a minute. What's on your mind, mate?"

He sighed. "I'm sorry, Vince."

"…"

"All right, now you're doing it.  _What?"_

"You never call me Vince."

Arastoo sighed, frustrated. "I'm sorry. I just can't…can't seem to concentrate."

Vincent frowned. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I just…there's this girl."

His friend's eyes lit up. "A girl? She pretty?"

"Yeah." He flushed. "Beautiful."

Leaning forward, Vincent murmured, "You've got it bad, mate. You're blushing." Ignoring Arastoo's razor-sharp glare, he continued, "So what's her name? Where'd you meet her? Not too many skeletons in the closet?"

"Maggie, in the lab after hours, and no. She doesn't drink, knows the terms for the five prayers, and loves comic books. She has two sisters and a brother, isn't freaked out by the fact that I spend my day with dead people and am fascinated by bone distortion, and is…completely…beyond beautiful!" He shoved his hair from his eyes. "She's perfect, Vincent, perfect for me. She loves the things I love, doesn't care that I pray  _five times a day_ to a God that she doesn't believe in. She's  _wonderful._ Too wonderful."

Vincent stared. "So let me clarify for you, 'Ras. You've met a girl you really like, who's pretty and funny, and likes Batman, and you're  _bothered_ by this."

He rubbed his forehead. "But no one is that perfect, Vincent. I can't be that lucky. No one is." Rubbing harder, he continued, "She won't talk about her family. Nothing important, anyway. And she seems almost too accepting of the fact that I'm Muslim. I can't help feeling like she's hiding something."

"Maybe she is."

Arastoo closed his eyes, kept rubbing. "Aren't you supposed to be reassuring me?"

"'Ras, you've known the girl all of a two months. No matter how great she is, aren't you moving a little fast?"

His eyes opened again. "Vincent, with  _anyone_  else, I would agree with you. I would say I was crazy for even thinking about her family. But with Maggie, I  _don't._ I  _want_  to meet her family, I want her to meet mine, I want to spend all of my time with her. I want to talk about culture and psychology and religion and superheroes. I've  _never_  felt this way about anyone."

Shaking his head, Vincent leaned over and clapped Arastoo on the shoulder. "What you just told me, 'Ras, is that you're in love. And according to my mother, who assures me she is an expert on the subject, love will work itself out." He stood and set some money on the table. "Come on. I've got to get to the lab and you've got the major-switching paperwork to fill out."

Arastoo shook his head as he stood, avoiding Vincent's eyes.

The British man touched his shoulder again, forcing eye contact. "Talk to her, mate. Could be she's got a reason for everything."

* * *

" _Aaaaaaarrrgggh!"_

"Afternoon, Maggie," he smiled, as he fell into step beside her.

She held up a hand, not stopping. "Do not talk to me right now. I need to talk to my supervisor, who has either lost his mind or I have. And I refuse to calm down, so don't even try."

"…all right."

He followed her across the Jeffersonian campus—for such a small woman, she moved amazingly fast when riled. He'd been lucky to catch her on the way to the lab as he'd exited the Cultural Anthropology department, and had planned to take her to dinner. It looked as if those plans would have to be put on hold.

Even as he fell behind her slightly, he couldn't help but admire how beautiful she was. She was wearing a green shirt today, with puffed sleeves and buttons down the front. It brought out the golden freckles sprinkled across her nose and matched her toenails, poking out from strappy sandals on her feet. The shoes added at least three inches to her five-two frame, bringing the top of her head even with his chin. He couldn't help admiring what the shoes did to her legs—themselves clothed in high-waisted black slacks—as he walked behind her.

_Also, she's just beautiful when she's angry._

"May I ask what Dr. Sweets-"

"No."

More worried now, he watched as she used a gait that on a woman any larger would be called stomping into the Forensic Anthropology lab.

"Dr. Sweets. If I could see you for a moment? Alone?"

He felt sorry for the other man as he followed Maggie, slightly bewildered, into Dr. Saroyan's office.

After greeting the other lab techs, including Vincent (ignoring the latter's raised eyebrows), he sidled closer to the glass door dividing Dr. Saroyan's office from the larger lab. Feeling slightly guilty, but not enough to stop, he leaned next to the door, close enough to hear his girlfriend's not-particularly-lowered voice.

"And you didn't think to tell me that Dr. Addy was  _innocent?"_

"Maggie, I didn't mean for that file to go home with you."

"He's innocent, Dr. Sweets, and yet he's locked up in that  _prison_ with the genuinely criminally insane!"

"Dr. Addy is a special case."

"He's not insane, Dr. Sweets. He is in complete control of his faculties. He is also  _innocent."_

_What?_

Arastoo could feel the blood draining from his ears.

_Zack Addy is innocent?_

He'd heard the abridged version of Dr. Addy's sabotage, and subsequent arrest, as well as the rumors of his being involved with the Gormogon serial killer, and he'd known in some ephemeral way that Dr. Sweets was the troubled man's attending psychologist, but he hadn't even  _considered—_ nor, he was sure, had anyone—the possibility of the former associate's innocence.

"…agreed to a plea deal. He is, in fact, innocent of murder, but has certain issues with narcissism and an inability to make connections except through logical reasoning. He is not a killer, Miss Dakkars, but he is an excellent candidate for schizoid personality disorder."

"That's what I thought…I put it in my notes. But Doctor Sweets, why lie? SPD isn't a criminal offense in court. He knew what he was doing. Why did he plead guilty?"

"Maggie, the situation with Zack is….complicated. If you feel that you would be better served by a different thesis advisor, I would be happy to oblige you. I understand you may feel that this is an unacceptable state of affairs."

There was a pregnant silence, and Arastoo could almost hear the gears in his significant other's head turning.

"No, Dr. Sweets….thank you for being honest with me. I apologize for my outburst, I should have trusted your judgment. Forgive me? I just…he told me, so earnestly, that he was innocent, so if I tried to write my thesis about him my conclusions would either be erroneous or make no sense. He seemed so…detached. I'm sorry, Dr. Sweets."

"That's all right. I understand. Did you, by any chance, choose a candidate?"

"Yes. Jacob Winters. I've decided to see if his parents' over-reaction to his high-functioning autism could have contributed to his narcissistic tendencies."

"Ah, yes. I agree, it seems the most viable of your topics."

"…thank you, Dr. Sweets."

He tried to look nonchalant as the psychologist exited the office, but touched Maggie's arm as she followed behind, looking as if she'd been clubbed over the head.

She turned dull eyes to him. "You heard?"

"I did."

She lowered her head to his chest. Ignoring speculative looks from the other techs, he carefully led her outside and over to a stone bench. She didn't look up, still resting her head on his chest. He stroked her hair and they stayed silent for several minutes, the quiet broken only by the fountain a few feet away and the sounds of nature.

"I feel so stupid."

He said nothing, continuing to stroke her hair.

"I jumped to conclusions. I was so ready to assume that Dr. Sweets had committed malpractice. God, what does that make me, Arastoo?"

He murmured, "You didn't know, Maggie. With the information you had, you drew a logical conclusion. The fact that it wasn't the correct one isn't your fault."

"Dr. Sweets would have been within his rights to dismiss me as a grad student. I challenged him, I yelled at his colleague…I'm a mess."

"Maybe." He resumed stroking her hair. "But you're my mess."

She huffed out her nose and snuggled closer, hand snaking up to fist in his jacket. "What would I do without you, Arastoo?"

"I don't know. I just don't know."

They stayed like that for a long time, listening to the rustle of the wind, the movement of the water, and the fluttering of insects around them. They said nothing, with only the occasional shift in movement to even show wakefulness, and simply basked in the presence of each other.

* * *

It could have been fifteen minutes, thirty, or an hour before Maggie finally stirred. Arastoo's leg had nearly fallen asleep, but he wasn't complaining—her hair had remained beneath his nose the whole time, and her reassuring scent of soap and grapefruit had lulled him into a nearly meditative state.

However, the setting sun lanced at his closed eyes, and he sighed. "Maggie, I need—"

She shifted off him, leaving a distinct feeling of lacking behind her, and nodded. "Go pray. I have to go get something from the office anyway. Ten minutes?"

He nodded.

She stood, began to turn, then faced him again. "Arastoo?"

"Yes?"

Looking down, she murmured, "Thanks."

He swore softly and closed the distance between them again, wrapping his arms around her tightly. "Of course. I love you, Eden Margaret." He loosened his grip just enough to kiss her softly and bury his face in her hair. "I love you so much."

He felt her stiffen against him.

_Oh, you idiot what have you done you'll scare her away_

"I love you too," she replied, relaxing again. "So, so much."

He released her again. "Go. Ten minutes."

She smiled, turned, and moved away, as he re-entered the lab.

* * *

"I'm an idiot. A total idiot."

"No, you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"Okay, you are."

"Hey!"

"I never disagree with a lady." He took a bite of his curry. They'd gone to his favorite place off Main, a small Indian restaurant that was quiet, homey, and met  _dhabiha_ standards. The fact that Maggie had loved it when he'd taken her there on their third date made it an after-work standard for them. "There was no reasonable way to respond to that situation, Maggie. It's like a soap opera. The way you responded made complete sense given your personality, education, background, and information."

"…'Ras?"

"Yes?"

"You're showing your Cultural Anthropology leanings."

He rubbed his face. "I did spend a year among them. Some of it was bound to stick."

"It looks good on you," she murmured, reaching across the table to take his hand.

Studying her, he replied, "I don't think that's what's bothering you, though."

"He's  _innocent,_ Arastoo. He's an innocent man locked up in a facility meant for the criminally insane. They're treated humanely, but he doesn't deserve the necessary restrictions on life that go with that." She paused. "He's mentally ill, but not deranged. He's extremely high-functioning and can tell right from wrong. The worst he could be accused of is accomplice to murder—a felony, buteligible for parole as well as a good chance he'd win an appeal. Especially coupled with his disorder," she finished, taking a sip of her drink. "I don't understand why this elaborate charade was deemed necessary. He said 'he wouldn't do well in prison.' She made a helpless gesture with her hands. "Of course he wouldn't! Who does? That's not the  _point_  of prison!" She finished, smacking the table and burying her face in her elbow.

"Maggie, I don't know him, I don't know his situation, but I do know Dr. Sweets. He gave me some of the best advice I ever received, and I trust him. If he believes this is best for Dr. Addy, then I believe him."

She raised her head slightly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes." He wasn't. Dr. Sweets was a good man, but he was ultimately bound by Addy's choices; however, his need to comfort his girlfriend was rather stronger than the need for absolute truth at this moment in time.

He rubbed the back of her hand, still in his, with his thumb.

She straightened. "Let's get out of here."

He smiled as he motioned to a waitress.

* * *

"What advice did Dr. Sweets give you?"

"Hmm?" He replied, looking down at her hair. Her head was on his chest as they watched a rerun of  _Criminal Minds,_ as was their wont on most Thursday nights.

"You said he'd given you some good advice. What was it?"

He shifted. "You know how I told you I put on an accent for the first few months of my internship at the Jeffersonian?"

"Yes, you did. I still find that hard to believe," she snickered.

"Well, I did. But I let it slip one day when Dr. Saroyan was making a fuss about me touching pig bones. I snapped at her in my good-old-American Chicago accent," he smiled. "Dr. Sweets called me to his office after that, and we talked. He told me that I didn't need a scientist to tell me who or what I am, and I try to remember that every day."

She turned over, placing her chin on folded hands on his chest, and looked him in the eye. "He is right. You are one of the most self-assured men I have ever met. Your commitment to your religion is admirable and the fact that you don't see it as conflicting with your job is even more admirable. It's one of the things I love about you." She wriggled up his body and kissed him softly.

Or at least, he was sure that was what it had been intended as, but he snaked his hand through her hair and held her there, encouraging her to deepen the kiss.

She was a storm of sensations, from the curry they'd had for dinner on her lips to the softness of her hair beneath his hands to the delicate perfume wafting from her skin. He was acutely aware of the dark room, punctuated only by actors on the TV screen, and the very empty bed through the door to his left.

Her hand stroked down his button-down shirt, unbuttoning the top button. His own, without any seeming order from his brain, moved from her jaw to her hip, squeezing and tugging her shirt from her waistband.

If he'd died that very minute, he would have died happy.

She pulled away from him with a gasp, scrabbling off his chest. "I—I'm sorry."

His chest felt cold and empty without her on it, and his hands felt strangely rough without her hair between his fingers. "Why?"

She squeezed her eyes shut, rubbed them with closed fists; this didn't help her already-smeared makeup, which coupled with her rumpled hair made her look well and truly ravished. He was suddenly intensely proud of that.

"Arastoo, I'm Christian. Like, Bible-thumper Christian. I was raised, almost literally from birth, with the idea that sex is something you  _only do_ within the bounds of marriage. I was hoping that I could break that," she murmured, "seeing as it's also taught that women aren't exactly meant to enjoy it—" she blushed even harder—"but I can't. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if that's a deal breaker for you, or—"

"Hey." He shifted across the couch and closed his hands around her wrists, pulling them away from her face. "I love you. I love _all of you,_ Maggie Dakkars. That means your high-functioning autistic sociopath papers, your verbal explosions all over both your and my bosses, your Icee obsession, your brain…your heart." He paused. "I was raised Orthodox Muslim. Pre-marital sex is also relatively taboo for us. I also was willing to change that if I had a partner for whom that was an issue. But if you are uncomfortable with us…doing that before we get married, that's  _all right. I love you._  I want you to be happy. More than anything."

Her eyes shone in the light from the TV. He swallowed. "I didn't mean to make you cry, Maggie—" He gathered her to his chest.

Muffled against his chest, she replied, "I'm not crying, I'm…amazed," she finished after a pause. "What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"I ask myself that same question—about you—every day," he murmured, and kissed her forehead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyla, everyone! It's me again. I hope you enjoyed this last chapter, because I can't promise it won't have to hold you over for a while--my inspiration strikes when it strikes, and while I have a basic plan for this story any sort of dialogue or meaningful development has to happen when I'm "in the mood", so to speak.To continue with mildly suggestive topics, what you just read is the absolute peak of any steaminess that will go on between these two, due to the conclusions reached about three paragraphs ago-and also because I have neither the experience or the inclination to write a good lemon. If this bothers you, please see the AN at the end of Chapter One.
> 
> This chapter is unbeta'd, though heavily proofread and edited by yours truly, simply because my beta is in Wyoming. However, my beta also has a real job now, hence cutting down on her free time. With that in mind, I'm in the market for a beta-not just for this story but my X-men multichapter fic (which is rather cheesier than this one, if less 'heavy') and any random oneshots I may come up with. If you're interested, please PM me.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! It's stargirl here, importing my fics over from fanfiction.net. This will be a bit of a process, but if you like this, my other works can be found here: http://www.fanfiction.net/u/1739978/stargirl0507
> 
> But as you can see, there are probably a few warnings that need to be set up before I continue:
> 
> 1\. This fic will involve religion in a big way, since the choice of practice thereof is the main conflict of this story. I am in no way trying to malign or stereotype any form of religion and those discussed in this story do not in any way reflect my own beliefs. Fundamentalist Christianity, in particular, will be used as a sticking point. To reiterate: I am in no way, shape, or form attempting to cast aspersions or reflections on any particular religion. The very small sect discussed in this story is not based on any real-life religious community and is in no way indicative of my beliefs about such communities.
> 
> ...okay. All done? Sadly, no.
> 
> 2\. This probably could go under (1), but this fic *also* involves things like premarital sex discussion and other mildly awkward things. The conclusions reached in this story *also* are not intended to reflect on my or anyone else's personal life decisions.
> 
> That's it. I love that you're reading this and I hope none of this bugs you. I love these characters and I love writing them. Thanks to my beta, berneynator, and I would be much obliged for any concrit you can provide.
> 
> Ciao,
> 
> -stargirl


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